


Five Times it Wasn't Love (and One Time it Was)

by greenbucket



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13019289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbucket/pseuds/greenbucket
Summary: He’s never been into the business of denial, never one to push thoughts away because they’re difficult or confusing; his head is usually the best place for Thomas to deal with them after all.





	Five Times it Wasn't Love (and One Time it Was)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thymesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/gifts).



> Hi Caudipteryx, happy yuletide! I hope you enjoy :)

**1**

Thomas has heard Peter gasp in a variety of contexts over the years. In surprise, in pain, in sarcasm. It’s a fairly versatile and standard response to a wide range of situations. It’s something else altogether to have him gasping because Thomas is mouthing along the length of his cock, no matter how many times they’ve been in this situation.

Peter is surprisingly nonverbal during sex for someone that can manage such endless chatter usually, so gasping and the occasional half choked out word is often as far as he gets. Thomas might feel a little unsure on how to proceed without the feedback if Peter’s hands weren’t doing all the talking for him: in Thomas’ hair, at the back of his neck, clenched around a fistful of bedsheet in the corner of Thomas’ vision when he comes up for air.

“You stopped,” Peter manages after a moment of staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling.

“Very astute, Peter,” remarks Thomas, even as the opportunity to take all of Peter in in such a state has want clouding his mind. Ever a sight to behold.

“Maybe you could not stop,” says Peter, “Meaning you could carry right on, couldn’t you? I think that works.”

Thomas can’t see a flaw in that particular plan; he gets back to business.

Peter is a familiar weight on Thomas’ tongue and he thinks he’s getting to know the smaller and smaller details of what works for Peter and what doesn’t but that doesn’t stop the rush of exhilaration and satisfaction when before long Peter is falling apart in Thomas’ hands. Peter’s palms are sweaty where one pushes Thomas’ hair back from his face and the other grips Thomas’ shoulder like he’s not sure whether to push him away or pull him in deeper, his whole body tense as Thomas keeps him teetering on the edge a few moments longer.

Thomas’ breath sounds too loud in his ears, his senses entirely overwhelmed in those few moments. The taste of Peter in his mouth and his smell in his nose and the softer hairs at the top of his thighs under Thomas’ hand. Then Peter is swearing once, drawn out and shaking, before going quiet and Thomas pulls off before he’s done; swallowing hasn’t ever been something he sees the appeal of and this way he can watch as Peter shudders through the end of his orgasm and into relaxation.

He sits back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and his hand on the sheets, with a passing twinge of guilt for Molly. When he looks over again, Peter is watching him, eyes dark and mouth slightly open like the most cliché of Thomas’ imaginings, and Thomas is suddenly very aware of how noticeably hard he is now Peter is spent, and how the weight of Peter’s gaze is hardly lessening things.

Thomas is so hard he aches.

Peter’s hands are clumsy as they pat somewhere in the area of Thomas’ hip. “I’ll do you,” he says, satisfied grin unfurling across his face. “Give me just a sec but don’t do anything, all right? I have plans, so wait.”

Thomas feels a certain combination of anticipation and trepidation; in the past, ‘plans’ for Peter have involved discussion over an array of sex toys which Thomas had been acquainted with as a concept, _thank you_ , but which had become far more varied and advanced than when he was a young man. Still, it had been a thoroughly enlightening evening after the awkwardness and he’d come far more times than he’d thought possible at this stage in his life.

Aside from that, he isn’t sure how much longer he can last and being told to wait has only intensified things. He shifts a little uncomfortably.

Peter’s grin widens as he watches. He pulls Thomas in for a kiss that Thomas is sure Peter intends to be shamelessly rakish and only more arousing, and while it certainly is at the same time Thomas feels the uncomfortable edge of the wavering, overwhelmed feeling soften out. It devolves into the sensual kind of kiss that they usually engage in starting out and Thomas almost forgets his own body’s demands as they fall back into the easy rhythm of it.

The demands make themselves known again immediately when Peter’s hands begin wandering downward and by the time Peter actually has a hand on him, Thomas feels urgently warm all over and he knows he’s probably already spouted a dozen embarrassing assurances and requests. If Peter becomes quieter during sex, Thomas becomes abruptly incapable of retaining a single thought in his head. He would be mortified if he had half the mind for such an emotion, which he luckily never does once it gets going or he might be too embarrassed to ever have sex again.

Peter has progressed on to kissing Thomas’ neck as he strokes him painfully slowly, a move which is both deeply juvenile and enough to get Thomas to the brink of orgasm in an instant.

He gasps out possibly Peter’s name, or perhaps please, or perhaps both, and then his mind whites out for a bit. When he comes back to himself he unclenches his jaw like always and takes a deep breath in. Peter is wiping his hand on the sheets and Thomas spares a thought for Molly before it passes out of his head again, his mind fuzzy with orgasm. He lies down beside Peter instead, feeling his body’s age in his joints after that. It’s nothing compared to when his body was truly old but it’s still noticeable.

Peter shifts over closer to Thomas and sighs, although it’s a contented one. “God, I’m wiped. Time we got into daytime television, eh?”

“And to think I was worried about the magic rotting your brain,” Thomas replies and he feels Peter’s breath against his neck when Peter snorts.

“Too much of that Telegraph can’t be good for your brain either,” Peter says after a moment.

Thomas tells him the Telegraph is perfectly adequate for a quick whack on the back of the head for cheekiness if he’s not careful, but he makes a mental note to research what exactly Peter’s talking about when he next takes a trip to the tech room.

 

**2**

They’re in Oxford, midway through a case and up to their eyes in notes, when Peter leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head with a loud crack. “Let’s go get a curry,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m tired of sandwiches for dinner, and I think Molly is crying back in London but doesn’t know why.”

They pick a restaurant based on Peter’s quick perusal of Trip Advisor, and Thomas is pleasantly surprised by the airiness of the place once they finally navigate themselves there after the stuffy reading rooms. Their server hesitates looking at them, trying to assess the kind of experience they’re looking for: business? Platonic? Romantic? He looks to and from the two-seat table by the window and the two-seat tucked in the corner with the tea light and delicate centrepiece, then compromises by placing them by the window and relocating the tea light and centrepiece to them.

Peter is in a good mood now there’s been an opportunity for fresh air and stretching their legs, commenting on the variety of cuisines they had passed along the way with interest, and Thomas should have seen the teasing coming when their waiter returns and Thomas states, “I’ll have the jalfrezi, please.”

Peter gives him a look. Thomas gives him a look back, hopefully conveying both ‘what?’ and ‘leave me to it’. Honestly, Thomas has experienced spices and seasoning without Peter’s watchful eye and he can handle it. Peter gives the look harder, and Thomas sighs and adds, “With a side of yoghurt, if you could.”

Peter’s smile rests somewhere between smug and relieved. He gives his own order and then once the waiter’s back is turned the smugness ups by several degrees.

“The jalfrezi?” he asks.

“I enjoy the flavours,” Thomas says tartly, moving his cutlery around for lack of something to do.

“What, the flavour of your own stomach lining?”

“It would not make me _vomit_.”

“You nearly cried the last time, if I remember rightly.”

Thomas huffs, but can’t deny it and so in his defence offers, “That was one particular restaurant which if _I_ remember correctly, you suggested.”

Peter shrugs. “I thought you could handle it,” he says, and then with his tone turning laughably mock-flirtatious, “You’re just so capable usually.”

Thomas pours them both water from the jug the waiter had left them rather than dignify that with an answer.

 

**3**

The first time they have penetrative sex is not the first time for either of them in their lives, so there’s no sensible reason for why they are both so nervous.

Thomas had suggested it last time they had had sex, which had more been a languid session of kissing that accidentally culminated in orgasms like they were teenagers, and Peter had seemed torn between liking the idea very much and being overwhelmed by the details that needed ironing out. Who would do what, what did they need to prepare, how would they communicate what they needed in the deed itself – not that he asked these questions specifically, of course, but Thomas could sense them in the ‘You’re sure?’, or maybe that was him projecting his own concerns.

Now they’re actually doing it, it’s both a lot easier and a lot more nerve wracking. Thomas had washed carefully that morning and triple checked his lubrication supplies and it had all been feeling a little soulless and mechanic when he and Peter had started out, everything awkward and clinical.

“For fuck’s sake, this is ridiculous,” Peter had said eventually, sitting back and eyeing both of their lacklustre erections with frustration. Thomas couldn’t disagree with the sentiment; it was ridiculous. “We’re going to pretend I’m not going to fuck you, all right?” Peter had continued and then pulled Thomas on top of him for some extensive kissing.

It had certainly done the job. Kissing Peter is a familiar comfort and Thomas barely notices Peter’s hands moving down his back or along the backs of his thighs until he’s aware he’s already babbling and aching and when Peter runs a finger dry over Thomas’ hole there’s none of the clinical awkwardness of before and ten times the bone-deep arousal of Thomas’ memories.

Peter’s hands are still a little unsure when they’re slick with lube but whatever sound it is that Thomas makes when Peter pushes one finger in must indicate the entire affair is going more than fine, as Peter breaks his usual silence to utter a strangled “Oh, God,” and his hands are much surer after that.

With Peter actually in him, what feels like hours later, Thomas comes back to reality for a moment. It’s always a little strange, the first few moments, but that doesn’t redact from the pleasure of it and it definitely doesn’t when Peter looks like he’s reached some previously undiscovered level of bliss. His eyes are shut, so Thomas allows himself to wear whatever embarrassing expression he likes as he takes Peter in and takes a moment – out of place, perhaps, in the middle of sex – to be unspeakably thankful he’d approached Peter all that time ago, to poke around the edges of the too-deep emotion he usually leaves not ignored but untouched.

But then again, Thomas has always loved to have a dick inside him; the emotion could easily be ‘thank Heavens Peter is here so we can have mind-blowing sex’, even as he knows it’s not. Peter certainly makes a case for inducing that kind of feeling when he begins to move, and Thomas blurts something terribly embarrassing then forgets how to think of anything at all.

 

**4**

The morning of Peter’s second cousin once removed on his mother’s side’s wedding dawns grey and a little rainy, unfortunate as it’s a June wedding but ultimately unexpected in Thomas’ opinion as they remain in the British Isles where any given day out of 365 has a reasonable chance of being overcast.

“She’s going to be so pissed off,” Peter says of the bride over breakfast. “All I’ve been hearing for months is about how picturesque the grounds of this place are and how they’re going the be the most stunning wedding photos known to man, even though my mum thinks the colour scheme is an atrocity.”

Thomas knows very little of colour schemes, or of the staging of wedding photos, or of weddings in general. He can imagine a torrential downpour might put a spanner in the works, however. “They could take the photographs inside the building?” he suggests.

Molly gives Thomas a disdainful look as she takes his cleared plate, as if to say wedding photos indoors are a ridiculous impossibility.

Peter snorts over his tea. “Imagine if things were that easy.”

By the time Thomas is adjusting the knot of his tie before his mirror, the light is so dim with the black clouds overhead that he’s squinting to see whether his Windsor is straight or not. He’s starting to feel a little tense around the shoulders as he continues to adjust and readjust and get nowhere, and he finds himself wishing that Peter hadn’t asked Thomas to accompany him as his plus one at all.

Thomas gets along quite well with Peter’s immediate family, the inevitable product of shared years and a shared interest in Peter’s wellbeing and happiness, but Peter himself admits the extended lot are a mystery and so Thomas doesn’t know how he’s supposed to manage a whole day of polite interactions. He certainly won’t be able to knowing his tie is wonky.

The resentment doesn’t get much time to settle in however, as the sight of Peter in a suit when Thomas meets him in the hallway is quite enough to wipe Thomas’ mind blank. There’s nothing particularly spectacular about Peter’s suit – a classic navy affair with a crisp white shirt, untailored so it doesn’t fit him quite right – and it’s far from the first time Thomas has seen him dressed up, but that doesn’t lessen any of the effect.

While Thomas stutters and gets tangled trying to both drink the sight in and not get caught staring, despite the fact he knows he is more than welcome to look, Peter looks Thomas up and down appreciatively and openly.

“Looking smart,” he says, tugging on Thomas’ lapel. “Very respectable. Everyone will know I’m in good hands.”

Thomas feels himself flushing, even though what he’s chosen for the wedding isn’t a far cry from what he wears day to day and ‘smart’ and ‘respectable’ aren’t the most effusive compliments. The innuendo in ‘good hands’ barely registers. It’s Peter’s hand so familiar on his suit and the warmth in his expression and how wonderful he looks in his suit; Thomas isn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Thank you,” he says, and then with perhaps too much honesty, “You’re looking quite dashing yourself.”

It’s Peter’s turn to be flustered then, but it’s cut short by the reality that if they are to be able to drive and get to the wedding on time they should have left five minutes earlier.

The wedding itself is an aesthetic enjoyment for the most part more than emotional, seeing as Thomas barely knows the bride or groom, but when the officiator’s speech branches into the importance of a love shared in the presence of family and friends Thomas feels something swell in his chest. It’s still a pleasant surprise to be included in the group, however general and par for the course that inclusion may be, and when the bride and groom are officially wed he finds himself not entirely untouched.

Outside in the aftermath, the sky is somehow even darker than before, and the wind is picking up. Peter goes to find his parents before they’re swept up by talking to everyone else, and Thomas sticks with Abigail who wants to readjust her training schedule in the coming winter but is adamant that readjustment doesn’t find its way into a scaling down of her workload.

“You can’t back out on me now,” she says firmly, “I know too much.”

Thomas recognises this is true. He’s never had the same reservations about her lessons that Peter has, anyway, and Abigail is an excellent student; far more consistently engaged than Peter ever was, and with far less propensity for dangerous science experiments. That said, Abigail’s chosen experiments tending towards being social and interaction based leaves them no less dangerous, and Peter carries on as always, and so Thomas rarely gets a moment of peace. It’s rather enjoyable, really.

The weather holds out just long enough for the final formal pictures to be taken and then the sky cracks open and the rain pours down in a flood. Abigail yells in shock and Thomas can feel himself become instantly drenched, his half-formed offer of his suit jacket to save her dress made redundant in seconds.

There’s a rush towards the marquee that has been set up a little away for the celebrations and is just about managing to hold up in the winds, promising cover from the rain at least. Thomas lets Abigail run ahead and takes a more sedate pace himself; the damage has been done now, after all, and more rain will hardly hurt, as uncomfortable as it is.

Peter manages to find him as he nears the marquee and takes one look at Thomas before bursting out laughing.

“You look like the most put-out drowned rat under the sun,” he explains, still smiling even as rivulets of water stream down his own face from the endless rain. Thomas tries his hardest to capture the image in his mind to keep.

“I’d be quite happy to be a put-out rat under any kind of sun right now,” Thomas says.

Peter pinches the arm of Thomas’ jacket and shakes his head in amazement when it comes away from his skin with a squelch, as if his own jacket isn’t soaked enough that it would probably do the same. To make his point, Thomas squeezes the end of Peter’s jacket sleeve and laughs himself at the tiny waterfall of rainwater that comes out.

“Ugh, this is horrific,” Peter says, looking up at the still-dark sky and blinking the rain out his eyes. He takes Thomas’ hand where it’s still on the edge of his sleeve and says, “Let’s get inside and wring out our socks. You’ve got to see these finger foods they’ve got, too, I’ve never seen such bloody pretentious food.”

Thomas takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of Peter’s hand in his, then walks more quickly towards the shelter.

 

**5**

“Werhehshouglsdfseck,” Peter says against Thomas’ collar bone.

“Hm?”

“We shoulvedseck.”

Thomas pokes Peter in the shoulder where he had been stroking up and down his back, absentminded as he’d stared up at the ceiling. “Peter.”

“We should’ve had _sex_ ,” says Peter loudly, lifting his face up for long enough to say the words before mashing his face back into Thomas’ chest.

“I’m sensing an astounding level of enthusiasm for the idea,” Thomas says dryly, resuming the stroking. It’s reassuring to feel Peter alive and in one piece under his hand, the disaster of a mishandled situation today being a far closer call than Thomas can ever be comfortable with. There had been a moment, before the dust had settled, where he’d thought– but it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Peter makes a pleased sound at that but turns his head so he can speak understandably, “You know I have all kinds of enthusiasm for having sex. And We lived celebration sex is a staple. Just,” – and here he yawns so widely his jaw cracks – “we’ll do it later. I’m falling asleep. Celebration sex can wait, right? The celebration never ends.”

“Of course it can wait. Go to sleep, we both need rest.”

“Life is a party and a gift,” Peter mumbles.

“Yes, Peter.”

Peter snores contentedly in response.

 

**\+ 1**

 

Thomas knows he’s harbouring extensive and expansive feelings for Peter. He’s never been into the business of denial, never one to push thoughts away because they’re difficult or confusing; his head is usually the best place for Thomas to deal with them after all, allowing him to act with a respectable measure of decisiveness when – because he really isn’t in the business of denial – he’s finally stopped internally floundering and dithering.

It’s been years since the thought of being in love with rather than just loving Peter had first cropped up in Thomas’ mind, somewhere before they had started having sex regularly but after the first few far-between and hesitant instances. Thomas has had plenty of time to mull the idea over in his mind, to assess the situation at hand and let the painful bits smooth over and to come up with a decisive plan of action. It’s just that Thomas is also not in the business of purposefully hurting himself.

Thomas _knows_ Peter in love, at least insofar as anyone outside of the minds of and dynamics of a particular relationship knows someone in love. Peter in love likes to take steps to demonstrate it, as adverse as he is to actually voicing the sentiment: he gives gifts, moves in with people, meets their parents and has them meet his. He is far from subtle – although Thomas suspects Peter thinks he is when it’s happening – in his careful orchestration of steps to progress the relationship.

And Peter isn’t in love with Thomas.

He loves him of course, Thomas has no doubts about that, and they have a comfortable life together and Peter is evidently attracted to him, but there have been none of those unsubtle moves on Peter’s part. It doesn’t work like one of Peter’s experiments; Thomas didn’t expect to add sex to affection and get romantic love. What they have is perfectly satisfactory, and even if sometimes Thomas feels the wish to tell Peter something he shouldn’t push far too close to the surface, it’s a simple enough task to translate that feeling into the kinds of words and actions appropriate for their relationship.

It is a tricky place to rest, though. Thomas doesn’t go looking for other suitors because that would only be painful and unfair for them and himself and Peter likewise hasn’t for quite some time, even before he and Thomas had started having sex regularly.

Thomas hasn’t brought it up because he isn’t sure whether it’s a painful topic for Peter and because it’s not something he wants to draw attention to. That he’s satisfied if not content with their current arrangement and respects that Peter doesn’t love him doesn’t mean Thomas _wants_ him to find a relationship with someone else, as selfish as that may be.

And so it’s with a heavy heart that Thomas listens to Peter recounting his interaction yesterday with the receptionist of a man they have been investigating for trading dangerous magical objects: the receptionist, after several weeks of flirting, finally bit the bullet and ignored the inappropriate context and asked Peter on a date.

“A _date_ ,” Peter repeats, incredulous. “Weird, right?”

Thomas is polishing his shoes at the table, Molly silent as ever beside him. Peter is eating a late breakfast across the table, still in his pyjamas at eleven in the morning. He’s looking soft enough that Thomas wishes they were sharing the settee again as they had two days earlier, Thomas reading the paper and Peter a how-to manual, his feet in Thomas’ lap. Thomas makes sure to breathe first and focus on his polishing before he speaks.

“Did you not feel the same way?” he asks. He has half a mind to change the subject entirely, but to his knowledge it’s been a long while since Peter has had anyone directly approach him.

“Who?”

“You,” Thomas says. “You didn’t want to go on a date? I know you don’t know and they’re hardly signing a marriage contract.” It’s like he’s a young boy again, unable to stop poking at the massive gash on his knee long enough for it to scab over and heal.

Peter is silent. When Thomas looks up, he’s staring at him like he isn’t sure whether Thomas is being serious. Sure enough, in a surprisingly flat voice Peter asks, “What? Are you joking?”

“No,” Thomas says.

Molly makes a show of escaping to the kitchens, even though they were planning to eat lunch out today and Thomas’ dishes are long washed and dried.

Peter pushes his half-eaten breakfast aside. “You might want to get your money back from whoever’s been teaching you comedy,” he says, “because that’s really not funny.”

Thomas is bewildered. “I apologise, Peter, I was just inquiring about why you didn’t want to go on the date. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Right,” Peter says. “Okay.”

Thomas goes back to polishing his shoes for lack of something better to do and to avoid the look on Peter’s face. He shouldn’t have said anything; now they both feel awful.

After a minute or two of strained quiet other than the sound of the polish brush, Peter says, rushed and hurt, “It’s just that usually when two people have a thing they don’t go on a date with other people because monogamy is still the societal default, you know? And I thought we had a thing.”

“A thing?” Thomas repeats, confused. “Having sex?”

“Since when are we having sex?” Peter asks, only deepening Thomas’ confusion.

Beginning to feel truly concerned, Thomas replies, “For the past few years, Peter.”

“No, no, I know that but…” and here Peter’s expression goes strangely blank. He sits back in his chair and puts a hand against his forehead like he might enter into a faint, and says, “Jesus Christ. Fuck me.”

“What’s the matter?”

Peter’s mouth moves without sound for a moment or two, unable to form words, and he stays staring into some place in the middle distance. Then, in a tone of absolute incredulity, “I wasn’t saying anything because _you_ weren’t saying anything.”

“Saying anything about _what?_ ” Thomas asks, sharp with the combination of worry and confusion.

Peter looks as if he wishes he were anywhere else, even as the corners of his mouth turn up and the unhappy lines on his face smooth out, and he’s determinedly flippant as he announces, “We’ve been basically dating for almost four years.”

Thomas’ immediate reaction is denial because if that were the case he’s sure he would have noticed. His second reaction is to try and squash the unbelievable hope-joy unfurling in his chest. His third reaction is to give Peter’s claim some serious consideration: have they been dating?

They’ve certainly been having sex together exclusively, doing away with protection some time ago on this basis, and they certainly have been living together and sharing a room more nights than not. They’ve certainly attended events together like they are dating and been treated by others like they are dating and gone on what could be construed as dates together like they are dating.

“You make a fair point,” Thomas tells Peter with a great deal more calmness than he feels, “except for the small issue of you not lov– liking me in that way.”

Peter laughs at this, short and slightly hysterical, and rubs his hands over his face. “Listen, I like you exactly in that way. I love you in that way. I thought – hear me out – I thought we were just not defining the relationship or whatever it’s called because that wasn’t how you did things, and I was fine with that, but I thought we were on the _same page_.”

Thomas gives himself a little more time to come to terms with that one. The echo of ‘I love you’ in Peter’s voice, directed at him, bounces around in his mind and takes up every spare space for thought for a while, and then the disbelief begins to filter in.

“I was under the impression you just enjoyed the sex with me,” Thomas explains weakly. “That is, I think the sex is wonderful, but I do love you, too. You just never did the things you did in all your other relationships with me, so I thought…”

Peter comes around to Thomas’ side of the table at that, pulling his chair in so close that he and Thomas knock knees. “What things?” he asks. “I have no idea what things you mean.”

They sound even weaker as he voices them, with Peter’s gaze so intent on him, but with no small amount of embarrassment and determined eye contact Thomas lists, “Getting people gifts, moving in together, meeting the parents.”

Somehow his hands have found their way into Peter’s. Peter looks frustrated and amused and completely turned around and, dare Thomas think it, quite a fair bit in love. With the power of hindsight and the giving up of his desperate grasp on his clearly entirely inaccurate understanding of their relationship, Thomas dares to think Peter may have looked this way for a while.

“How,” Peter says, voice shaking with just controlled laughter, “was I supposed to move in with you? We already lived together.”

“I–”

“And _how_ were we supposed to do meet the parents?”

“Well I–”

“My parents have already met you and they love you. Your parents are dead.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Sorry,” Peter says and gives Thomas’ hands a squeeze, and then back to the teasing: “But what gifts did you want me to buy you? How many millions do you have exactly?”

“There’s no need for the plural,” Thomas says, feeling awkward as always about discussing finances. “There was just never any indication that you– well. Felt the same way.”

“Thomas. Really?” Peter says, eyebrows raised, and it’s been years since their relationship had moved past _Nightingale_ or _sir_ but it still lights up something warm and settling in Thomas’ chest to hear his name in Peter’s voice.

That doesn’t mean he appreciates being forced to own his now clearly irrationally obstinate ignorance and stupidity. “Well you thought we were in a relationship that we just weren’t talking about, which is hardly better!”

“I thought all that homophobia and boarding school, you know…” explains Peter, just as weak as Thomas’ attempts.

Thomas sighs. If they get into an argument about who has acted most foolishly the whole day will past wasted. “How about we were both ridiculous as a settlement?”

“That seems reasonable,” concedes Peter.

“And that from here onwards, in explicit terms, we have been and are together,” Thomas continues before he loses his nerve.

“And no one can know about how we’ve been messing this up for the past four years.”

“I agree,” Thomas says. He needs to retain some kind of credibility.

He’s always envisioned (in some imaginary world where it could be possible that is in fact reality) that Peter loving Thomas back would change everything; as it turns out, everything at somehow already changed and would now go on as scheduled.

They sit together a moment more, both their hands getting sweaty clasped together and Thomas’ shoes half polished on the table beside them, before Peter speaks.

“All this emotion is exhausting. Let’s do the rest of it later and right now go and have sex like old times then go out for a fry up lunch. I’ll even dig up that vibrator you liked so much.”

Thomas thinks that sounds deeply enjoyable and entirely necessary and says, “I’ll try and be explicit about the nature of our relationship throughout, just so you don’t forget or get confused.”

“Well you’ve never had any trouble talking yourself hoarse during sex before,” Peter says agreeably, pulling Thomas to his feet.

Thomas gives him a look that Peter is too busy enjoying his cheekiness to catch. Thomas, soft with the still emerging amazement at how the day has unfolded, lets it slide; their bedroom and the new start to their freshly defined relationship await.  


End file.
